Array The griffin classics - William Shakespeare - Complete Collection

Which in my childhood I did dote upon;

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,

The object and the pleasure of mine eye,

Is only Helena. To her, my lord,

Was I betrothed ere I [saw] Hermia;

But like a sickness did I loathe this food;

But, as in health, come to my natural taste,

Now I do wish it, love it, long for it,

And will for evermore be true to it.

The.

Fair lovers, you are fortunately met;

Of this discourse we more will hear anon.

Egeus, I will overbear your will;

For in the temple, by and by, with us

These couples shall eternally be knit.

And, for the morning now is something worn,

Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside.

Away with us to Athens. Three and three,

We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity.

Come, Hippolyta.

[Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and Train.]

Dem.

These things seem small and undistinguishable,

Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.

Her.

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,

When every thing seems double.

Hel.

So methinks;

And I have found Demetrius like a jewel,

Mine own, and not mine own.

Dem.

Are you sure

That we are awake? It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think

The Duke was here, and bid us follow him?

Her.

Yea, and my father.

Hel.

And Hippolyta.

Lys.

And he did bid us follow to the temple.

Dem.

Why then, we are awake. Let’s follow him,

And by the way let’s recount our dreams.

[Exeunt Lovers.]

Bot. [Awaking.] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is, ‘Most fair Pyramus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute the bellows-mender! Snout the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life, stol’n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass, if he go about [t’] expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but [a patch’d] fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballet of this dream. It shall be call’d ‘Bottom’s Dream,’ because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death.

[Exit.]

¶

Henry Fuseli , p. — John Peter Simon , e.

Henry Fuseli , p. — Thomas Ryder , e.

Enter Quince, Thisby [Flute], and the rabble [Snout, Starveling].

Quin. Have you sent to Bottom’s house? Is he come home yet?

[Star.] He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported.

Flu. If he come not, then the play is marr’d. It goes not forward, doth it?

Quin. It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.

Flu. No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens.

Quin. Yea, and the best person too; and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice.

Flu. You must say “paragon.” A paramour is (God bless us!) a thing of naught.

Enter Snug the joiner.

Snug. Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men.

Flu. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have scap’d sixpence a day. And the Duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hang’d. He would have deserv’d it. Sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing.

Enter Bottom.

Bot. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts?

Quin. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour!

Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders; but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am [no] true Athenian. I will tell you every thing, right as it fell out.

Quin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

Bot. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath din’d. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribands to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferr’d. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away, go, away!

[Exeunt.]

¶

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, and Philostrate, [Lords, and Attendants].

Hip.

’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

The.

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antic fables, nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact.

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;

That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to aery nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy;

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear!

Hip.

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigur’d so together,

More witnesseth than fancy’s images,

And grows to something of great constancy;

But howsoever, strange and admirable.

Enter lovers, Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.

The.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.

Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love

Accompany your hearts!

Lys.

More than to us

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

The.

Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,

To wear away this long age of three hours

Between [our] after-supper and bed-time?

Where is our usual manager of mirth?

What revels are in hand? Is there no play

To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

Phil.

Here, mighty Theseus.

The.

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What masque? what music? How shall we beguile

The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Phil.